“No way.” She wasn’t some noodle brain who couldn’t build a big mud bowl. She’d followed his weird instructions exactly. “It’s ready, kid.”
“Almost.” He sat back and grinned at her. “First we have to fire it. Otherwise the potion will soak into the clay.”
Blood in the Weave, she should’ve thought of that. She groaned, leapt to her feet, and trotted to the beach to collect more wood. At least it was only one more step. She couldn’t wait to see the potion in action.
The fraying kid made her collect so much wood it piled taller than the wagon. At least he’d gone and collected tons of kindling, to make sure the fire would start evenly, he said.
They set the woodpile on fire with torches from the cook fire. Too bad he didn’t use magic, but he hardly ever did these days. Was he saving his magic up, or had something scared him? With the kid, she never could tell.
The pyre burned. And burned. And burned.
She sat on the wagon’s roof all night, bored out of her gourd for the third night in a row. But no way was she gonna let anything near that fraying trough until it hardened.
***
The bonfire burned itself by midmorning, but the kid still wouldn’t let her touch the embers. He just sat there, carving on the scimitar.
“We ain’t never gonna get nowhere at this rate.” Was he trying to make her crazy? He surely was doing a good job.
“If you remove the ash before the clay is completely cooled, the trough could break,” he said without looking up from his carving knife. “You’ll have to start all over.”
Lorel groaned and stomped back to the wagon. If she watched him one minute longer, she’d smack him again. And she never meant to hit him the first time. Best to keep her distance.
What to do with herself? “I’m going riding. To see what Tsai’s found.”
He just nodded went on carving.
She saddled Nightshade, and they raced up the beach.
Who cared where Tsai’d gone? Just riding made her feel better, more alive. Way less pissed off. Nightshade was her best friend in the whole world. He never argued with her. Well, hardly ever. And he always wanted to run. She fully understood a body who hated to stand still.
Together they flew over the sand, up pebbly creek beds, and across grassy meadows. Nightshade galloped like his hooves never touched the ground.
After a while he got lathered up around the shoulders, though.
She leaned back in the saddle to tell him to slow down, and patted his neck. “You gotta walk for a while, my lad. No point in getting too tired.”
Nightshade stomped and grumbled, but walked as pretty as a gentleman promenading on the seawall. For a while, anyway.
They galloped again. They trotted a ways. Her young stallion had the smoothest gaits of any horse in the world.
But the miswoven seahorn called to her. She gotta get that thing finished.
The sun was still high in the sky. No point in heading back this soon. The fraying kid was even stubborner than old glue.
But they could wander south, back toward camp.
After a couple of hours of racing the waves up the beach, they ran into Tsai, who didn’t look all that happy to be found. For a good friend – and she really did trust Tsai to cover her back – the fraying girl didn’t understand stuff like waiting. And getting bored.
Boredom could kill a warrior. And do it real slow.
They caught six small fish. Well, Tsai collected the stranded fish, and some of the kid’s stinky seaweed.
Lorel kept an eye out for the good stuff. She didn’t find no crabs though. And what she craved was eggs. She really shouldn’t’ve taken all them eggs. Now the blood-woven gulls attacked her when she went anywhere near their nests.
Every time she tried to talk to the girl, Tsai rode away, pretending she was after a fish or something. The frayed thread.
Her own thread was about to fray clear off the Shuttle.
Finally the sky turned as orange as a new copper penny. Sunset wasn’t far off. The kid had to let her get back to the seahorn now. Else she’d strangle the little chunk of Loom lint with his own hair.
Herding Tsai back to camp took forever. Lorel tried to be polite about it, but the girl was just so slow. Finally she thought of an excuse to ride ahead. “I’m gonna go check on the kid.”
Tsai ignored her.
The kid mumbled, “Not yet,” before she ever said a word to him.
She groomed Nightshade until he gleamed. Then she polished all his gear. Twice. When Tsai finally got home, she offered to groom Sumach, too, but the girl wouldn’t talk to her. The frayed thread. She hadn’t been that antsy.
Tsai cleaned the fish and the kid cooked dinner. Tsai never said a word to her. The miswoven frayed thread. Come to think of it, the kid wasn’t talking to her either. Well, they could shove themselves into a chamber pot, for all she cared.
It was nearly dark when everybody finally finished eating. They’d both been messing with her, eating that slow.
But she’d had enough waiting for one day. For a whole lifetime. Lorel brushed the sand off her butt, stalked closer, and stood right over him. “Ain’t it time yet?”
The kid sighed real loud. “I don’t see any sparks. If you want to take the risk…”
“Yes!” If she waited any longer, she’d explode.
He grabbed a fish skewer and limped over to the trough. He swished the rod through the ashes, obviously avoiding the hard-clay sides.
Shifting from foot to foot, Lorel stood and watched him. When she couldn’t stand still no more, she walked all the way around the fire line, twice. Finally she stopped and glared at him. “Well?”
“Give me time.” He didn’t even look up at her, just poked the skewer a little deeper into the cinders.
“Blood in the Weave, it don’t need no more time.” She dropped to her knees in the sooty sand and stuck her hand into the ashes. They didn’t burn her skin hardly at all, so she glared at the kid. “It’s cool enough. Go get your magic potion.”
“Turybird…”
“Shut up. I’m tired of waiting.” She stood, grabbed him by the collar, and hauled him upright. “Go get your potion. I’m gonna get the seahorn, and we’ll do this tonight.”
“Turybird, listen to me.” He clawed at her wrists like she was hurting him. “Turn me loose! I told you that it will have to soak for days. Ten days, if I’ve calculated right. There’s no point in hurrying.”
“I’m tired of waiting,” she repeated, but she let him go. “I did all the carving on that thing I got in me. I want to start the soaking bit tonight.”
“Oh, all right.” He staggered back to camp (way exaggerating his usual limp), climbed up on the driver’s platform, and looked down at her. “I’ve got a keg of the stuff. I’ll need your help to get it out of the wagon.”
Now things would start moving. Lorel grinned, suddenly calm. “I hear you.” She clambered into the wagon after him.
The kid crooked one finger and mumbled something. Pale light started glowing over his head.
About time. He was getting lazy about making magic these days. Half the time she had to nag him into making a light, just to keep him in practice.
He opened the cupboard hidden behind the built-in chair – the one he’d made her promise to stay out of – pulled out a bunch of jars and put them in a serdil-leather bag, along with an old wooden bowl. Next he moved to a kitchen cabinet and dragged a keg out.
Lorel slung the keg to her shoulder. “This thing’s heavy. Did you have to fill it all the way up?” She wriggled through the doorway without waiting for an answer. “You grab the seahorn, kid. I stashed it under the wagon.”
He climbed down, leaned under the wagon, and stared at the instrument with his face all scrunched up.
She knew what he was thinking. It sorta looked like a stretched-out snake with its mouth open wide. A glittering pattern of wave-shaped scales paraded up its whole length. It sparkled real pretty under the magic light.
His shoulders relaxed, and he chuckled. “Whoever plays it has to blow into the end of its tail.”
“Yup. I get a kick outta that, too.” Come on, kid, get a move on it. She couldn’t stand there holding the heavy keg all night.
He looked over toward the cook fire and waved. “Tsai’dona, would you give me a hand?”
The frayed thread nodded, put down whatever she was fixing, and wandered over. She balanced the long carved spike on one shoulder and trudged over to the trough.
The kid slung his bag over his back and limped after her. “Put the cask down at the higher end.”
“Will do.” As soon as she put the keg down she realized she hadn’t done all her work yet. She hastily scooped the ashes out of the channel, talking all the while to distract him until she finished. “Found some good flat bones that’ll cover it real tight. I shaped the top of the trough to fit them perfect.” If the miswoven thing hadn’t shrunk too much, anyway.
“Well done. They look as if they’ll fit like a puzzle box.” He took her gorgeously-carved seahorn out of Tsai’s hands and lowered it into the clay hollow.
“Ain’t no puzzle here. Get on with it.” The slow poke. He really was trying to mess with her.
He made a face at her and walked to the keg. “Stand back.”
Tsai backed far away. The turtle turd. The kid never did nothing that hurt nobody.
Lorel grinned and took half a step back.
He opened the spigot and a thick red liquid spilled into the trough.
Tsai gasped and shuffled farther away.
She took another step back, herself. Under the kid’s magic light, the potion looked like old blood. “What is that stuff?”
“Don’t ask.” He said it like he was trying to scare her. The little chunk of Loom lint.
The trough filled clear to the top, covering the seahorn. He closed the spigot.
She stepped forward to secure the bone lids.
He shouted, “No, stop, I’ll do that.”
What was he yelling about? She inspected the dark, bloody potion. Sniffed at it. And laughed. “It’s your ruined wine! It’s just the vinegar you wouldn’t throw out. Your magic potion is cheap red wine!”
Tsai giggled and rolled her eyes. “Some magic potion.”
“I never said it was magic.” He lifted his chin and scowled at both of them. “That was your idea. But there is a magic in it, wait and see. If the spine doesn’t bend in ten days, then you can laugh at me.” He ran his fingers through his hair, pushing it out of his face, but making the curls on top stand straight up in twisty spirals.
“At least you can’t cook with it anymore.” Tsai snortled and strolled back to the campfire.
“Don’t count on it.” He punched his fists onto his hips. “I have a cask and a half left.” With his hair standing straight up and his elbows hanging out of his raggedy coat, he looked like a ruffled little rooster.
Lorel giggled. She couldn’t stop herself. Tears rolled down her cheeks. Snorts spewed out her nose.
“Next time I’ll disguise the smell,” he mumbled.
Hide the smell of vinegar? The turtle turd never would. Never could, no matter how he tried. She’d never met nobody so addlebrained.
The more she thought about it, the dafter he sounded.
Her chest hiccupped. Gurgles rose up her throat. She flopped back into the sand, holding her sides and cackling like a rooster at the first hint of dawn. Weaver’s blood, her ribs hurt. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed so hard.
He grumbled under his breath, but measured powders from the jars into the bowl.
She got control of herself about the time he finished. “Now whatcha doing?” She shook sand out of her hair and propped herself up on one elbow to watch this new silliness.
“Creating the rest of the potion. Vitriol, rock alum and verdigris.”
“What’s all that do?”
He sprinkled the powder into the trough. “Get up, lazy bones. Go get more firewood. This potion must be kept warm. But not hot.” He banged the lids down on the trough. Sing to the Weaver, they fit just fine.
“But what does it do?”
He raised one eyebrow at her, hobbled away, and sat at the cook fire beside Tsai.
Fraying kid. He just had to be mysterious.
Lorel shrugged and strolled off to raid Tsai’s woodpile.
Not far from camp, Nightshade nickered. Both mares replied.
Were the noodle brains pregnant? That would put a crimp on their traveling. But she wouldn’t know for sure for lunars, maybe even a year. She couldn’t remember how long a baby horse took. Not that it mattered. There wasn’t a thing she could do right now.
The kid took off his padded boot and rubbed at his stub. Even from this distance it looked red and sorta blistered. Poor little guy. Wasn’t a thing she could do about that, either.
The kid’s boot hopped. Nah, that had to be firelight shining on it. Or maybe he nudged it a little.
Tsai sat up straight and stared at the thing.
The boot hopped again.
The kid just looked pissed. “Thunderer strike that Shuttle-smashing boot.”
She’d never heard that one before, and he said lots of weird stuff. She wandered closer.
He reached out to grab the thing.
The fraying boot took off like it was running a one-legged race.
Tsai climbed up the wagon so fast sand sprayed in a wave behind her.
“I wish you wouldn’t do that.” The kid shook his head and rubbed at his hair like he’d caught lice. “Boot, come back here!”
The miswoven chunk of leather kept on running, but its course changed a bit, so it ran in circles around the campfire.
The kid pounded his fists on the sand. “Thunderer piss and flashflood the worm-tongued pigskin contraption.”
Wow. That was the worst cussing she’d ever heard out of him. At least, it sounded like cussing. But what was the point of swearing at a boot?
Tsai lifted the door and stuck her head underneath. “Kyri, I think we have a problem out here.” Her voice shook worse than it ever had during a serdil attack. What was wrong with the girl?
The slithering toad said something, and Tsai slammed the door shut. “It says, you made it, you fix it. At least, I think that’s what it meant. Too many big words.”
The kid’s shoulders sank and he nodded. “I expect you’re right.”
What was all the fuss? She stepped into the boot’s path and bent down to pick it up.
The fraying thing bounced to one side and hopped faster, but in a smaller circle.
Tsai moaned and squirmed higher on the driver’s bench.
The kid blinked. “Maybe it is a sprite. A talisman shouldn’t show that much initiative. I don’t think…”
No wonder he wasn’t using magic much, if it was going cockeyed on him. “It’s gonna wind up in the fire, if it keeps on like that.”
His face said he’d like to cook it himself. “I need it too much to let it burn up.” He sighed and squared his shoulders. “Boot, please come here.”
The racing chunk of leather slowed down. Kind of shy-like, it hopped over to the kid.
“Thank you.” He patted it gingerly, picked it up – gingerly – and eased it onto his stump.
Tsai moaned out loud. “You’re not wearing it!”
Lorel couldn’t help it. She thumped down into the sand and laughed.
Chapter 22.
The nighthawk’s screech pierced the darkness, startling him. His carving knife slipped, and he narrowly missed cutting off his thumb. Enough. I’m too tired to carve anymore tonight. I’ll kill myself, at this rate.
Viper laid the nearly finished broadsword on the sand. He leaned back against the wagon wheel and watched Lorel’s hands in the flickering light of the fire.
She frowned with concentration. Her long fingers dwarfed the tiny knife, but they moved with amazing delicacy, guiding the tool through intricately carved patterns
, smoothing, shaping, sharpening the images.
She looked up eventually and saw him watching her. She smiled shyly and held out her work for his inspection.
The flute glowed red and gold in the shifting firelight, its patterns of clouds and dragons writhing and dancing with their own inner life. No small and frail instrument, this. It measured a full three feet long and three inches across.
“It’s magnificent,” he whispered.
Tsai’dona nodded. “I wish I could carve something that lovely.”
Lorel looked startled, but she grinned quickly as if she were trying to hide her expression. “The toad said it was gonna be a weapon. I couldn’t make no lady’s toy.”
“I didn’t think you’d take it so literally.” He shouldn’t be surprised, though. “You could use that thing as a club if you needed to.”
“This one approves of the swordling’s endeavors.”
He peered around, but couldn’t find the serpent in the darkness. Couldn’t even identify the direction of its voice.
Lorel simply shrugged. “Whatcha need, toad?”
“This one would take pleasure in hearing the tone of the Weapon.”
“Me, too,” Tsai’dona whispered.
Lorel’s face relaxed. She raised the flute to her lips, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath.
It was as though the warm west wind had been summoned to sing for him. The notes were low and deep, so intensely beautiful they brought tears to his eyes. Suddenly he missed Setoya desperately.
The music changed. Fierce and cold, filled with frost and shrill anger, it became the song of the north wind, the song of war. He shuddered and drew his cloak closer around his shoulders.
Again the music changed, growing cool and seductive, then hot and steady. The east and the south winds were honorably covered. The Wind Dancer would be pleased.
“You’ve done it,” he whispered when the last note died. “You’ve captured the winds and caged them in a cylinder of bone.”
Lorel threw her head back and laughed.
“This one concurs with the hatchling.” The Kyridon stuck its snout out from under the wagon less than a foot from where Viper sat. “This one is irrefutably satisfied with the swordling’s industry. This one identifies no further anxiety concerning the excellence of the Weapons. The swordling has substantiated its proficiency.”
Serpent's Child (The Mindbender's Rise Book 3) Page 30
